Where the story begins
I am here. Cactus. Context. A crisis behind me, and several more in front of me.
I don't remember how I came here. I don't remember how I arrived near this cactus in this desert, with no sign of humanity around me.
Oh, there, above - the trails of an airplane. Going from north to south, or south to north, or east/west or west/east.
But I do remember this cactus from my dreams. There is something sacred about this cactus. But it does require a blood sacrifice.
I pin my pointing finger on one of the needles of the cactus. Ow. It starts to bleed. I smear the needle with the blood.
And then... something shifts.
Not in the physical world. In consciousness itself. As if the cactus has awakened to my presence.
Suddenly, there is a book. Leather-bound, ancient. It wasn't there before. Or was it?
Memory in the desert is unreliable. Time moves differently here. Consciousness bends.
I write something. A question. Simple. Careful.
"Who is she?"
I close the book. Not to end it, but to listen.
And in that closing -- somewhere beneath the sand -- another click.
Louder. Closer.